


too busy being yours (to fall for somebody new)

by sewmyname



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: A tiny bit of smut, Angst, Canon Compliant, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:04:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewmyname/pseuds/sewmyname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry props himself up again and gives Nick a wobbly grin, his cheeks visibly flushed even in the dull light, sweat all through his curls. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Grimmy,” he says softly, his smile broad, his eyes locked on Nick’s. </p><p>A few years from now, Harry and Nick have a picnic together on a sunny London afternoon. Flashbacks happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	too busy being yours (to fall for somebody new)

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on the incredible Arctic Monkeys song, which became my number one Gryles song after I saw this brilliant/torturous edit on tumblr: http://blamegryles.tumblr.com/post/58445297202/do-i-wanna-know-if-this-feeling-flows-both-ways.
> 
> I hope the fact that the flashbacks aren't chronological or dated isn't too annoying. I tried to make the time periods clear from dates, events, ages, etc. But if it's annoying, let me know! My tumblr is gonnasewmyname.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**now**

It’s one of those days where London seems to go through an identity crisis for 24 hours – where a perfect, sun drenched day falls on a weekend and everyone’s suddenly decked out in shorts and summer dresses, lounging in parks and eating at outdoor cafes and generally being as Parisian as they can manage. Harry had seen the weather forecast last night, and insisted immediately that they go on a picnic today – “like, an actual, proper picnic, Nick, not just vodka and day old sandwiches you bought at the shop.” He’d been up at some ungodly hour this morning, banging pots and pans around while Nick complained loudly from the bedroom, but even Nick has to admit it was worth it as he surveys the spread that Harry is unpacking from the basket (and apparently they own a picnic basket now – just one more of the myriad possessions that Nick previously associated with people of his nan’s vintage, which Harry insists are vital for survival). There are boiled eggs, chicken sandwiches, veggie wraps, strawberries dipped in chocolate, grapes, bananas (of bloody course), two cheeses and two bottles of wine. It looks fucking amazing, and Nick tells Harry so.

Harry grins, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re a lucky man, Nick Grimshaw,” he says, breezily. “Where would you be without me?”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Well, I was basically destitute for 27 years before I met you, of course. Barely functioned as a human. Didn’t even own a single picnic basket. Can you imagine? The horror.” 

Harry laughs and takes a large bite out of a chicken sandwich. “Imagine if I’d met you when we were the same age,” he says, his head cocked to one side, chewing thoughtfully. “You know, like, in a Back to the Future type scenario. I was 17, and you were 17. D’you reckon we would’ve got together?”

Nick snorts, swallowing half a boiled egg before responding. “Harold, have you seen pictures of me when I was a teenager?” he asks incredulously. “Can you imagine you and me stood next to each other at 17? You with your Adonis like features, beating girls back with sticks. Me with my hideous hair and baby fat and ironic glasses. It was a strong look. Jesus Christ. You wouldn’t have touched me with a ten foot pole.”

Harry chuckles as he opens the first bottle of wine, balancing two glasses precariously between his thighs. “Do you really think I’m that shallow?” he asks, feigning offence.

Nick nods solemnly. “Yes, Harry, I truly do.”

“Well, here’s to us meeting when you were the hottest up-and-coming radio host in London then, instead,” Harry says cheerfully, handing over one of the glasses and clinking his against it. “Cheers to good hair!”

They take a sip from their glasses, and Harry winks at Nick mischievously. “Though Greg might have been the _actual_ hottest.”

Nick picks up a strawberry and throws it at his head.

***

**then**

Nick’s not even sure what makes him say it. The words hang tensely in the air, suspended between them as they face each other in Nick’s kitchen. Harry is gripping the wine bottle in his right hand, his face an unreadable canvas, his eyes wide. Nick looks desperately away after a few seconds and his eyes are drawn to the fridge, directly to the picture of him, Harry and Finchy that’s been stuck there for the last two months while One Direction have been away on their first massive overseas tour. While Harry’s been jetsetting all over the place – even bloody Australia, for crying out loud – Nick’s developed what could only be described as an unhealthy obsession with this photo.

He deliberately put up a shot with someone else in it, so anyone who visited would be well aware that it was just a laddy shot of Nick out having a laddy time with his mates. Being lads. So that no one could possibly know (despite Aimee scoffing that “ _everyone_ knows, you idiot”) that it’s only there so he can look at Harry’s face as soon as he gets up every morning. And every night after work, the last thing he does before he goes to bed. And a dozen times in between. He knows that photograph absolutely backwards; could tell you every last detail of what Harry is wearing, the expression on his face, the position of his arms. His hand gripping Nick’s shoulder, his eyes crinkled, his mouth wide in that bloody dimpled smile. The smile that’ll be the death of him one day, surely.

Nick glances hurriedly away. The last thing he needs to be looking at right now is that fucking picture.

_There’s always my bed, you know._

Only a few seconds have passed since he said it, but Nick feels like all twenty-eight years of his life have flashed before his eyes. Just as he’s about to open his mouth – to say god knows what – Harry starts to speak.

“I thought…” he pauses, frowning, his left hand fidgeting with the bottom of his t-shirt (Nick’s t-shirt, Nick notices absently). “I thought you said that was a one off? A drunk thing. Valentine’s Day madness.” He pauses again, reaching slowly over to the bench to put the wine bottle down gently, as though he’s afraid it could shatter into pieces. “That’s what you said.” He nods, like he’s waiting for Nick to remember. “Afterwards.”

Nick nods in reply, his mouth dry. He’s suddenly aware that the kitchen is deadly silent, and he’s sure Harry must be able to hear his heart beating from across the room. It’s pounding in his ears, and he barely trusts himself to speak without sounding like an idiot. 

He decides to give it a go anyway.

“Well,” he begins. Strong start. “I just… well.” He shrugs his shoulders helplessly. _I didn’t bloody mean it,_ he wants to say. _You’d just turned eighteen; half the world wanted to shag you. Still does._

_I was letting you off the hook._

The right corner of Harry’s mouth begins to quirk slightly upwards as he shifts his weight on his feet. “Great,” he says. “That clears it up then.”

Nick grins despite himself, deeply aware that his cheeks are turning a very unattractive colour as he looks down at his feet for inspiration. Nothing’s forthcoming there. Then, without warning, Harry seemingly teleports forward, stopping within a few inches of Nick and punching him lightly on the arm. 

_Oh, for the love of the Queen,_ thinks Nick. _I’ve got a teenage popstar punching me on the arm in the kitchen after I not so subtly suggest that we shag. My life is actually ridiculous._ He looks up, and Harry’s eyes are dancing now, as he attempts to keep a straight face. 

“Come on, you idiot,” Harry says, punching him again, harder this time, and grinning like a maniac as Nick yelps in response. “Just kiss me.”

Nick hesitates. He’s only inches from Harry’s lips; all he’s got do is lean in. He knows they’ve done it once before, but that was under the weight of a ludicrous quantity of alcohol. Relatively sober, standing here in his socks in his kitchen, it feels like leaping off a bridge. He knows with certainty that this is one of those crossroad points in life; something he’ll not be able to take back. 

Harry’s brow creases, and he tilts his head slightly to the side. “Did you not like it last time?” he asks, biting his lip, his voice suddenly uncertain, as though he’s had it wrong all along.

And, well. Nick’s a lot of things, but a good liar isn’t one of them.

He grasps Harry by the back of the neck. “Of course I bloody liked it,” he says, closing the gap.

***

**now**

Harry’s lying in Nick’s lap as the sun beats down, shielding his face with his hands. It’s a perfect level of warmth – one of those days where a few degrees more and it’d be too hot, but right now it’s absolutely perfect. Nick’s starting to worry about his lack of sun cream. He swears he had two brand new wrinkles when he peered into the mirror this morning.

“Nothing from Aimee or Ian today?” Harry asks lazily, burrowing his head deeper in appreciation as Nick runs his fingers through his curls.

“No, amazing, isn’t it?” Nick replies, laughing. “I did ask Aimee the other day if we could perhaps have one day free of wedding talk per week. She got all offended, actually, got in a right strop about it. But maybe she’s decided to spare us today.”

Harry laughs, and Nick watches the way the sun falls across his dimples, highlighting his cheekbones. “It’s so hilarious,” he says. “I would’ve picked her to be the world’s calmest person about getting married.”

“I know!” Nick replies, throwing his hands in the air. “I honestly don’t know where this mental person has come from. I’m like, who are you, what the bloody hell have you done with my sane friend? She actually said to me the other night, “I just want it to be _perfect_ , Nick!” Like a proper Bridezilla, on the brink of tears an’all. I had to have about three shots of vodka to recover.”

“Yeah, I was there, if you recall?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow. “You reported that whole conversation to me, post vodka. Right before the vomiting. Just after the karaoke.”

Nick grins sheepishly, hazy memories returning. “Oh. Right.”

Harry smiles, turning his head to the side and planting a kiss on Nick’s left index finger, then giving it a quick nibble. “Least it’ll be over soon,” he mumbles, mouth still half full of finger. “It’ll be great, I reckon.”

Nick smiles, extracts his finger, before Harry’s tongue starts getting ideas. “Yeah,” he replies, reaching for a veggie wrap. “I can’t wait, actually.”

***

**then**

It’s the first time they’ve spoken on the phone in almost two months. They’re still texting once a week or so, but it’s – it’s bloody hard, this limbo they’re in, the “break” they’ve agreed on. Sometimes Nick thinks that no contact at all would be easier, but unfortunately he’s too weak a human to be able to handle that. A few times he’s tried to put himself on a Harry blackout – no checking his Twitter, no stalking his tumblr tag, no texting – but it never lasts. He can’t think of a single vice he’s ever had that’s been harder to give up than Harry fucking Styles. 

After surviving the hellish weeks of the Haylor debacle, they’d come to an agreement – live the last few weeks before the tour as though they were their last on Earth, was more or less the gist of it, and then, when the Take Me Home tour started, they’d go on hiatus. It had seemed a brilliant idea when they were shitfaced after the GQ dinner. They’d clinked their tequila shots together and sworn to each other that they could do it, that they could go back to being nothing more than pals, easy. They’d be free to see other people while Harry was away, and if they were both still interested in November – well, they’d give it a go again. Simple as that. 

Harry had even grabbed a napkin, written it out like a bloody contract, made Nick sign it with a drunken scrawl. _We, Harry Styles and Nick Grimshaw, do hereby agree to stop shagging as of February 24 2013, and be BFF’s instead, until the abovementioned Harry Styles returns from his massive_ (here Nick had intervened, crossing “massive” out and replacing it with “STUPID”) world tour in November...

Now here they are, halfway through the break, thereabouts, and it’s anything but fucking simple. 

Right now, Nick’s sitting in the studio and twirling the phone cord in his fingers when he sees Matt watching him, an expression of total glee on his face. “Shut up,” he snaps, covering the receiver. Matt just bursts out laughing in response, and starts making kissy faces.

“Did you just tell me to shut up?” Harry asks, sounding confused. It’s 2.30 in the morning and he’s on a bus in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, so he’s got an excuse.

Nick shakes his head, flipping Matt off and spinning around in his chair to face the other side of the studio. “No, bloody Fincham,” he sighs. “He’s being obnoxious. Haven’t met any top notch radio producers over there, have you? I’m in the market for a new one.”

Harry laughs. “But Finchy’s the only reason I ever listen to your show.”

“Oh, thanks Harold, that’s lovely, that is.”

“Hey, at least I’m still listening,” says Harry, and Nick wonders if that’s true. Can’t be, surely.

“Haven’t forgotten about me totally, then?” he asks, attempting to keep his tone light, knowing he’s failed dismally even as the words leave his mouth. 

Nick doesn’t know whether Harry’s been with anyone else. Doesn’t want to know. He hopes desperately that he hasn't - even the idea of Harry kissing someone else, let alone being in someone else's bed, makes him feel physically ill - but he knows he has no right to hope for anything at all, given his own... situation, with Nicco. He still doesn't know what he's doing, or whether it's as good an idea as everyone keeps telling him it is. Nicco’s… Nicco’s lovely, of course. Wonderful, really. He’s not Harry, which is hardly his fault; but he’s good looking and he’s funny and he’s caring and he’s not bad in bed and he’s _here_. And he adores Nick, a little too much perhaps; but Nick'll get used to it. 

He can't spend nine months waiting for someone who's probably never really coming back.

There’s a long pause before Harry’s quiet response. “Not quite, no,” he says. Another beat, and his tone drops even further. “Not as good at moving on as you are, apparently.”

Nick holds his breath and closes his eyes, no idea what to say. Doesn’t want to say Nicco means nothing at all, because it’s not true, really; doesn’t want to tell him he’s moved on, because he certainly hasn’t. He’s suddenly aware of the Bastille track playing in the background. _And if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing’s changed at all?_

“Never knew you were so into Italian guys,” Harry says, and his voice sounds so small and lost that Nick wants to cry. 

Three weeks later, Nick goes to Italy with Nicco for the weekend, and on Monday morning he’s finishing up a link at the studio when his phone buzzes with a text from Harry. It’s the first he’s heard from him since the phone call, if you don’t count Instagram comments, which surely you don’t. It’s two short sentences.

_Looks like Italy was amaaaaaazing. I can’t do 'friends' anymore._

***

**now**

Harry’s sat up now, having roused himself for the important task of spending a full minute throwing – or attempting to throw – grapes into Nick’s mouth. After Nick cops one in the eye for the third time, a rapid halt is called to that game, and Harry settles back down, crossing his Bambi legs. 

“I reckon it won’t be long til Gem’s engaged,” he says suddenly. “Hope she’s a bit more chilled about it than Aimee. I get the feeling I’ll cop a lot of it if she’s not.”

Nick snorts. “Well, I would’ve said Gem’d be calm, but I thought the same about Aimee, and she’s turned into a hellbeast. So I really, really have no idea.” He shakes his head in bewilderment, taking a large gulp of wine. “Fiona, on the other hand – do you remember that? She might’ve just been going for a pint, day of her wedding. Calmest bride I ever saw. Cool as a cucumber.”

Harry nods. “Fifi’s such a legend. I’d marry her in a heartbeat.” He pauses, seizing a banana and peeling it open with the kind of delight Nick would usually associate with a child in a lolly shop. “How long’ve Aimee and Ian been together, you reckon?” he asks suddenly.

“Um… three years, I guess?” Nick replies vaguely, shrugging his shoulders as he gathers the errant grapes. “Maybe four? Seems like forever.”

“It’s not as long as us, anyway,” Harry says, mouth full of banana, a touch of pride in his voice. 

Nick laughs. “If you took away all our “breaks”, Harold, and took away the amount of time you left me pining alone like a giant bloody sadsack to go jetsetting all over the globe, we’ve been together for about five and a half minutes, I’d say.”

Harry frowns. “Haven’t jetsetted for ages,” he answers with a slight pout. “And anyway… none of that today. ‘S too sunny. It’s a happy day today.”

***

**then**

It’s only Christmas Eve lunch (not actual Christmas lunch – that would’ve been a bit _too_ odd, and Harry does have a family, after all), so perhaps it’s not that big a deal, but Nick is still surprised that Harry is sat opposite him at his parents’ dining table. The whole family’s there, and Aimee too – seasoned Christmas hater that she is – and for some utterly incomprehensible reason, his mum had insisted on inviting Harry. “You’re always talking about him,” Eileen had said, a knowing look in her eye, and that’s mums for you, isn’t it. Always think they’re three steps ahead. “And he’s absolutely lovely.” Both his parents have met Harry, and were ridiculously charmed by him, of bloody course. (Nick is starting to wonder if anyone in Harry’s seventeen years of life has ever met him and not adored him immediately. It seems unlikely). So then his mum had texted Harry directly to invite him. Texted Harry Styles. His mum. He’d only found out Harry was coming from a bloody tweet. Nick's still not over it, to be honest.

Nick’s dad – who has thankfully managed to call Harry by his correct name consistently today, so far, a marked improvement on last time – is regaling everyone with a story about their neighbour from two doors down, and Harry’s attentive, laughing in all the right places and asking questions. Nick’s pretending to listen (he’s heard this story five times now; he thinks he could recite it in his sleep), but he’s glancing back and forth between his dad, his roast dinner, and Harry, and lingering longer on Harry each time. _He’s such a good person,_ he thinks, wondering why this has never really occurred to him before. Seeing him here, endearing himself so thoroughly to the people Nick cares most about in the world, is… well. It’s having a bit of an impact on him, it would be fair to say.

Three months ago Nick had a proper chat with Harry for the first time. He was a cheeky, slightly mad teenage popstar among a gaggle of four other cheeky, slightly mad teenage popstars, who happened to be sat at his table one night. Nick has no bloody idea how they've gone from that to this. And today, it’s just – it’s a bit much, really. Having him here. Smiling like that. Glancing over at Nick regularly, making eye contact in that way that unsettles a very specific region of Nick’s stomach. Laughing genuinely with his parents and chatting effortlessly to his sister and peeling potatoes in the kitchen. Inserting himself into Nick’s world like he’s always been here; like he’s meant to be. Like he belongs.

It’s not that Nick fancies him, or anything. That is to say, no more than anyone else does. Everyone and their mother fucking fancy Harry Styles, don’t they? It’s nothing out of the ordinary. So, okay, maybe he fancies him, a bit. But it’s not like he’s got actual feelings, or anything like that. He doesn’t do feelings. _And_ there’s the small matter of Harry being seventeen, for god’s sake. He’s just a bloody underaged curly haired moppet who is altogether too charming for his own good and whose wiles do not, repeat do NOT, work on Nick Grimshaw. 

_The very idea is ridiculous,_ Nick thinks, as he stabs at a piece of sweet potato. Aimee can just bloody shut up with all her oohing and aahing every time Harry's name is mentioned. She probably wants to shag him herself.

As Nick pops the cube of sweet potato into his mouth, he glances up, and Harry is smiling at him across the table. Their eyes meet for a few seconds, and Nick swallows without chewing.

As he starts to choke, a single thought crosses his mind. _Yeah. I am really, really fucked._

***

**now**

“We only had one actual proper break, anyway,” Harry says, huffing indignantly as he returns to his horizontal position in Nick’s lap. “Unless there were others I wasn’t aware of?” he asks, eyes narrowing, glaring up at Nick.

“If there were others, nobody told me about them either,” Nick laughs, tracing his left hand along Harry’s arm, outlining his tattoos. “Talking of, I ran into Nicco the other day. He was looking quite fit, actually,” he adds, a tease in his voice. 

Harry shakes his head, smiling peacefully, eyes closed against the sun. “Nup. No good. Can’t make me jealous of him anymore. It’s too long ago. And anyway,” he snorts, “I’ve developed a zen-like calm about him ever since you told me had a small cock.”

“I bloody wish I’d never told you that,” Nick says, shaking his head. “Your head’s big enough as it is.”

Harry grins, opens his eyes and looks up at Nick seductively. “Not as big as my…”

“Oh, shut up!” Nick clamps his hand across Harry’s mouth. “I’m sick of listening to you wang on about your enormous cock. I know it’s enormous. I’m very well acquainted with it, actually. We go way back, it and I.”

***

**then**

Aimee hugs Nick tightly at the door, before stepping back, taking hold of both his hands and giving them a quick squeeze. "Talk to him, okay?" she says quietly, dropping his hands. "Promise me you will actually talk to him."

Nick sighs and nods, running his hand through his hair, closing his eyes briefly. "I will," he says. "I'm just fucking terrified of what he's going to say."

Aimee nods, her eyes soft, and Nick thinks for the thousandth time in the last few years that this is why she is his person. She wouldn't know a sugarcoating if she tripped over it in the street.

She gives him a quick hug again, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. "I'll call tomorrow morning, alright?"

Nick nods, attempting a smile and failing. "Thanks Aims. Love you."

She kisses him on the cheek, smiles sympathetically at him as she opens the door. "Love you back."

Nick sighs again as the door closes, and leans back on it with his eyes closed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the entire evening. This is why he doesn't do relationships, or whatever the fuck it is that he and Harry have. Life is so fucking simple when you’re single. You don’t spend half your life pining for your significant other who’s thousands of miles away. You don’t almost burst into tears when he walks in the door because you’re so fucking emotionally unhinged, and then somehow find yourself yelling at each other within the space of fifteen minutes. You don’t sit through a roast dinner with him and all your best pals immediately afterwards and make the whole thing awkward as fuck for everyone because the two of you are so obviously, undeniably not ok. 

Nick clenches his fists, takes three deep breaths, and walks into the living room. Harry is sitting forward on the sofa, swirling a glass of red wine in his left hand, his elbows resting on his knees. 

Nick sits down next to him, just far enough away to make the distance clear. Harry looks up, and they make eye contact for a few moments. He looks absolutely exhausted – bags under his eyes, his skin pale, his cheeks drawn – and Nick knows that he probably looks even worse.

Nick is the first to look away, sighing again as he reaches for the wine bottle, pours himself a glass. There are so many things he wants to say, but he has no idea where to start; has no idea what he wants Harry to hear, or what he has the courage to say. His mind is a little fuzzy from the wine, and he’s so, so unbelievably tired. He can’t remember when this got so fucking hard.

“I don’t know if this is working,” he blurts out, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them.

In his peripheral vision he sees Harry’s head drop, but no response comes. Seconds pass, the only sound coming from the dishwasher murmuring away in the kitchen. _He’s going to leave me,_ thinks Nick, with startling clarity. _It’s over._

__After almost thirty seconds, Nick can’t stand the silence any longer. “Harry, will you fucking say something?” he demands, running his fingers through his hair again in frustration. “Anything?”_ _

__Harry slowly turns his face toward Nick, and Nick is shocked to see that his eyes are filled with tears. He’s never once seen Harry cry, not properly; the odd sniffle when he’s watching some program on telly doesn’t count. This is real, and this is Nick’s doing. His stomach twists violently and tears spring to his own eyes._ _

__He wonders if this is how people feel when they say their heart is breaking._ _

__“What do you want me to say?” Harry asks, his voice choked, barely more than a whisper._ _

__Nick grips his wine glass tightly, his right hand fisted into a ball. “Anything. Tell me what you’re fucking thinking. I don’t know what’s in your head anymore.”_ _

Harry puts his wine glass down, sits up straight and locks eyes with Nick. “What’s in my head, huh?” he asks, his tone acerbic as he blinks the tears away. “What’s in my head is that I get home after the last two and a half weeks, which have been almost the two and a half hardest weeks of my life, as you’re well aware, and I’ve been in the door ten minutes when you start making cracks about Taylor. Start talking about all this as though this fucking suits me. Start accusing me of not actually _wanting_ to see you.” 

__“I didn’t say that,” Nick snaps._ _

__“Yeah, you did, basically,” Harry retorts, his eyes cold now, fists clenching. “You said I could’ve tried harder to get time away from her.”_ _

__“Well, you could’ve, couldn’t you?” Nick snorts, and he knows that’s the final tipping point, really. If it wasn’t over before, it will be now. “They haven’t got a fucking gun to your head.”_ _

__“It’s in the fucking contract!” Harry exclaims, hands slapping his thighs. “You know that. Do you know how hard I had to fight even just to be here today?”_ _

__Nick rolls his eyes. “Managed to make it to Lou’s birthday alright, didn’t you?” he says, his voice thick with sarcasm._ _

__Harry’s eyes darken further. “And I had to fight for that too! It was his 21st, you arsehole. You’re bloody lucky I’m here today.”_ _

__Nick puts his palms up in mock apology. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m lucky! How could I forget how lucky I am? I’m so fucking grateful I got to see you for one day in the entire month. I apologise, I’ve clearly no right to be upset at all, that’s more than reasonable. A whole 24 hours in 30 days!” He laughs without a trace of humour. “Fucking brilliant, isn’t it?”_ _

Harry jumps to his feet, throws his hands in the air. “Are you fucking kidding me? This is not my choice! This is nothing to do with me! If I had my way, I would be here with you every fucking day.” He points down at Nick, eyes flashing. “You know that. You _know_ how hard it is for me.” 

“No, I don’t know that, Harry,” Nick snaps, standing up, facing Harry square on. “I don’t, anymore. And I don’t think you have any fucking idea what it’s like to be here without you, actually. I feel like I spend 90% of my fucking time missing you. I’m so fucking sick of phone calls and Skype and every bit of contact I have with you that isn’t you just fucking being here. I just want to be able to see you more than once a fucking month. It’s not that much to ask, really, is it? Especially given that in two months, you’re going off on that little thing, you know, that world fucking tour. I know we’ve done a bang up job at avoiding talking about that, Harry, but I think it might be time, don’t you?” He’s on a roll now, the words tumbling out beyond his control. “Nine months you’ll be away, practically. It’s impossible, that’s what it is. It’s literally impossible. There is no fucking way it’s going to work. We cannot keep this up.” 

__Harry stares at him, eyes wide, pupils blown, and Nick swallows heavily, aware of what he’s said only after it’s too late. The silence stretches between them for seconds as they stand facing each other, both slightly out of breath. Nick wants desperately to press rewind; start this whole fucking evening all over again. He wills himself to say something, anything, but the words die on his lips._ _

__Finally Harry nods, puts his hands on his hips. “Well,” he says, with a short laugh. “Sounds like you’ve made that decision without me, hey?”_ _

__He bends down to grab his phone from the table, shoves it angrily into his pocket as he turns toward the door. As he reaches the doorway, he spins around, his eyes flashing. “By the way, I had good news for you tonight,” he spits out. “I managed to get Christmas off. Booked flights to London for Christmas Eve. Was gonna spend it with you, a whole four days. But I guess that won’t be happening now, will it?”_ _

__Nick’s stomach drops, guilt flooding his veins. “Harry… I –“_ _

__Harry shakes his head, barking out another harsh laugh. “Too late,” he snaps._ _

__The front door slams moments later, and Nick feels it like a physical blow. He sinks down on to the sofa and drops his head into his hands._ _

__***_ _

__**now** _ _

__The sun is starting to drop in the sky, casting long, dappled shadows across the park, as Nick finishes off the last of the chocolate strawberries and rubs his stomach appreciatively._ _

__“Well love, you definitely know how to put on a spread. Think my stomach’s about to explode. I’ll have to actually do proper exercise tomorrow, now.”_ _

__“We’ll do a big run in the morning?” Harry suggests._ _

__Nick groans, throwing his head backwards. “Even you can’t make that sound appealing, Harold.” He squeezes Harry’s biceps. “Although I do like to have a perv on these in a tank top.”_ _

As Harry laughs, Nick’s phone beeps next to them. “Ah, didn’t think we’d get a whole day off!” he says as he picks the phone up, swiping it open. “It’s Aims. She says, _Can you ask Harry to ask Zayn to ask Perrie if she still has those great earrings I was talking about? With the birds on them? Thinking similar for the bridesmaids._ And then there are approximately seventy-four emoticons of dresses and jewellery.” 

__“So she’s asking you to ask me to ask Zayn to ask Pez. Got it.” Harry gives a thumbs up._ _

__“Apparently.” Nick sighs. He cannot bloody wait for this wedding to be over. “Are Zayn and Perrie still coming over for tea on Sunday?” Nick asks, and Harry nods in response. “And what exactly are we supposed to feed pregnant people? Don’t want to be responsible for poisoning their unborn child, yeah?”_ _

__Harry rolls his eyes, reaching up to pay Nick condescendingly on the head. “I’m all over it, babe. You just stay out of it. I literally want zero per cent of your input. Less than zero, if possible. Specifically because I don’t want to poison their unborn child.”_ _

__Nick gasps, abruptly removing his hands from Harry’s stomach, where he’d been tracing circular patterns underneath his shirt. “Well, you’ve really upset me now. I'm never cooking again.”_ _

__***_ _

__**then** _ _

The first time Nick tells Harry that he loves him, he’s drunk. No points for originality there. It’s Nick’s 28th birthday, and they’ve been joined at the hip the entire evening. Everyone’s been teasing Nick mercilessly about his “boyfriend” – not that he and Harry are even close to using that word yet – and Nick’s too happy to care, for once. Every time he looks at Harry, Harry beams back at him like a lovesick puppy, and Nick thinks _I could get used to this._

__They’re in a taxi on the way home when he says it, snogging in the backseat like fifteen year olds. Nick is incredibly, ludicrously drunk, and he pulls away from Harry for a moment, cups his cheek with his right hand. “I’m in love with you, you know,” he says, simply, and Harry’s eye widen in shock. Nick’s stomach seizes and he lunges back in, catching Harry in a kiss; silencing him so he doesn’t have to hear him say he doesn’t feel the same._ _

__When he wakes up the next morning, his mouth as dry as carpet and his head pounding, Harry is wrapped tight in his arms, and that'll do. That's more than enough._ _

__The second time Nick tells Harry he loves him, it’s sixteen hours after the first time, and he’s more or less sober by now. They’ve been remarkably social today, Nick managing to get some kind of odd hungover second wind for his birthday picnic in the park (maybe he was just still drunk?), but last night’s adventures are starting to catch up with him in a big way now. They’re in Sainsbury’s, in the confectionery aisle, and Harry’s spending an inordinate amount of time staring at the biscuit selection. Nick is astounded at the fact that he is even vertical, and really just needs to be back on his couch in the foetal position, watching Nigella reruns or something equally soothing. He opens his mouth to tell Harry to get a bloody move on when Harry suddenly looks over at him, knuckles white as he grips the shopping basket._ _

__He fixes Nick with a stare, his brow furrowed. “Are you actually in love with me?” he asks, quietly._ _

Nick's first instinct is to lie, of course. There's a brief pause, as he hears himself say it in his head, laughing it off. _"No, no, oh my god. Did I say that last night? Ugh, I was so drunk. No. Definitely not."_ It's on the tip of his tongue. The easiest thing in the world. _Say it, you idiot!_ his brain screams. 

But he looks at Harry, really _looks_ at him, and he sees something in his expression that stops him in his tracks. Harry's gaze is unmoving, waiting for Nick to respond. He doesn't look freaked out, or angry, or disgusted, or any of the things Nick has always imagined Harry would feel if Nick laid it all on the line. Beyond all else, he looks nervous, his shoulders tense and his jaw set. All Nick wants to do is kiss him; grab hold of him here in the middle of bloody Sainsbury’s and never, ever let him go 

__Nick takes a deep breath, lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug. Jumps off the diving board._ _

__"Did you honestly think I wasn't?" he asks, eyes locked on Harry’s._ _

__Harry’s brow slowly uncreases, and he steps carefully toward Nick, whose heart is pounding, his palms drenched in sweat. He stops when he’s a few inches away, his expression still serious as his eyes scan Nick’s face. Nick’s fists are clenched, his shoulders locked into position. A panic attack is not out of the question._ _

__After what seems like an eternity, Harry seems to find whatever he’s looking for. He gives Nick the smallest of smiles, and the slightest nod of his head._ _

__“I’m in love with you too,” he says quietly, the words tumbling out in a nervous rush, the fastest Nick has ever heard him speak. “I can hardly remember a time when I wasn’t.”_ _

__There’s a beat, two, while Nick’s mind reels and he wonders, stupidly, if he’s heard him correctly. But then Harry’s eyes are crinkling and a smile is spreading across his face, and Nick knows, knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s true. He breaks out into a huge smile in response, and for several moments they stand there, grinning madly at each other. Harry reaches forward and puts his hand lightly on Nick’s waist, rubs over his hipbone with his thumb. The tiny gesture carries as much weight as anything Harry has ever done, and if Nick thought he was in love before, he had no idea. He thinks if his heart pounds any faster it’ll bloody explode._ _

__Just then a woman enters the aisle, her toddler screaming in the front of her shopping trolley as she strolls past them. Nick and Harry turn back to the biscuits, glancing at each other out of the corners of their eyes, enormous grins still plastered across their faces._ _

__"So... how do you feel about Iced Vovos?" Harry asks, and his voice is light, free, almost laughing, so obviously wrapped around a smile._ _

__"I feel good,” Nick says, hearing his own voice in exactly the same tone, grinning like a madman. “I feel very, very good about Iced Vovos."_ _

__***_ _

__**now** _ _

__Nick drains the remains of the first bottle of wine from his glass, and goes back to tracing a circle around Harry’s bellybutton through his shirt. “Do you want to get married one day?” he asks._ _

__Harry opens his eyes and looks up at Nick, frowning. “What, in general?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Nick answers, his eyes on Harry’s stomach. “In general.”_ _

__“Yeah, of course,” Harry says, as though Nick’s an idiot, which is a fair assessment. “You know that.”_ _

__“So what would you do if I asked you to marry me?” Nick asks, still avoiding eye contact._ _

__“What would I do?” Harry asks incredulously, and Nick nods, grinning now. “Probably fall over in shock. I’d want to be sitting down. Or, you know, I’d make sure I had a solid grip on my walking frame, since I’d probably be a pensioner and you’d be totally bloody senile before you’d get it in your head to propose.”_ _

__“But if I actually asked you,” Nick presses, tracing lines up Harry’s sides. “Like actually proper asked you. What would you say?”_ _

__“I’d say yes, you moron,” Harry replies, rolling his eyes before closing them again, shaking his head. “What do you think I’m doing here?”_ _

__***_ _

__**then** _ _

__As soon as the car manages to pull away from the blinding flashes of the paparazzi bulbs, Harry throws himself across the backseat, landing in a sprawled heap across Nick’s lap. From the front, Cal (who is doing his best to control this situation, and failing miserably, it’s fair to say) snaps at him to be careful, but Nick’s pretty sure Harry doesn’t even hear him. It’s been a long night with many more drinks than either of them could hope to have counted, and they’ve only got a few days left before Harry’s off on the dreaded tour. As per their promise earlier in the day, neither of them have mentioned the impending break tonight, but it’s been an intense night all the same – shared looks, tight squeezes and small touches that no one but those closest to them could pick up._ _

__But in the last hour or so, the alcohol’s taken over, and they’ve both become giggly, handsy, totally mental messes. Nick knows there’ll be a come down eventually, but for now, he’s glad they’re both smiling. He knows he’ll be sat on his sofa drowning himself in wine and moaning to anyone who’ll listen in a few days’ time, so this is good. He’s going to need to remember this. Nine months is a bloody long time, and he’s not stupid. He knows the odds of getting Harry back at the end of it are somewhere between zero and nil._ _

__He knows it’s almost over, for real this time._ _

___It’s been fun while it lasted,_ he’s told himself a good two dozen times in the last few days, in a failed attempt at positive thinking. Now, he wonders if that sentence has ever made anyone feel better in the history of the universe. This week, all it’s done is remind him of the magnitude of what he’s about to lose; of who he’s about to lose. The only person he’s ever felt even remotely like this about. The only one who’s ever counted, really. He’s been unable to concentrate on anything else for days; has thought about nothing else. The amount of stress cleaning that his apartment has been subject to would be alarming if anyone other than Aimee, Henry and his mother had noticed._ _

__But right now, he’s not thinking at all, and it’s far, far preferable. When is alcohol not the answer, really? Maybe he should just spend the next nine months absolutely twatted._ _

__Harry wraps his long arms around Nick and presses his face into his neck. “Niiiiick…” he murmurs softly, as he drops a trail of sloppy kisses up to his ear. “Is everybody coming back to yours? Can we… escape for a bit?”_ _

__Nick shifts in his seat, a growing issue in his pants causing him mild discomfort. He smiles down at Harry, pulls his chin up and brings their lips together quickly. “I reckon we can, love.”_ _

__Harry grins madly, smashing their lips together again and managing to almost brain Nick in the process. “Yesss!” he squeals, like an excitable child._ _

__“But very quickly, yeah?” Nick warns. Somebody’s got to be the responsible adult here, for god’s sake. “I’ve got to get some sleep, at least. Work in the morning. Listeners. Radio. Nationwide. Big deal. My career. You know. Just that.”_ _

__Harry shakes his head, smiling at him with the total lack of care that only the truly drunk can manage. “I’ve already worked it all out. Gonna come to work with you. Not gonna sleep.”_ _

__“What?” Nick squawks, jerking back as Harry lurches forward to kiss him again. “No, no, you most definitely are not doing that, Harold. You’re very, very drunk, and I’m only slightly less drunk, and tomorrow morning we will both be very, very, hungover. I have to work, and we both need to sleep, and tomorrow morning you’re going to need to be somewhere with that curly head of yours deep in a bucket. Not in my bloody studio.”_ _

__Harry shakes his head even more determinedly this time, grinning like the loon that Nick long ago came to accept that he is. “Nope. ‘M coming. You’ll see. You can put me on the radio. I’m famous, you know. Ratings and all that. Finchy’ll love it.”_ _

__Nick rolls his eyes. “Sure, Harold. You on the radio in a matter of hours, still absolutely hammered. That’s definitely going to happen.”_ _

__Harry frowns, and cups Nick’s cheek in his hand. “We’ve gotta make the most of it, Nick,” he says, clearly doing his best to enunciate clearly, trying to make Nick understand. “Not long to go.”_ _

__Nick nods, closing his eyes, resting his forehead on Harry’s. “I know, popstar. I know.”_ _

__***_ _

__**now** _ _

__They’ve fallen into silence now, and as Nick looks around the park he can feel Harry’s breathing starting to deepen. He smiles as he watches a young girl, maybe four or five, trying to make the smallest puppy he’s ever seen sit down. She hasn’t got a hope – the puppy can’t even be six weeks old – but she keeps trying, giggling like mad every time the puppy bounds up to her and scurries about her feet instead. Nick can see her Dad watching her from a few metres away, a proud grin on his face, a camera in his hand._ _

_That’d be Harry,_ he thinks, and the clarity with which he can picture it shocks him. 

_Now or never._

__***_ _

__**then** _ _

__Nick is literally shaking with laughter as he settles into the driver’s seat. Harry climbs into the passenger side and makes a brief attempt at a haughty frown before similarly losing it._ _

__Nick drops his forehead onto the steering wheel, shoulders heaving. “Frankie Cocozza! Frankie Cocozza!” he squeals._ _

__“Yes, Grimmy, I think I may have heard you the first time?” Harry snaps, his feigned annoyance undermined by his inability to stop laughing. “At least no one thinks I’m forty-five, last I checked.”_ _

__Nick’s eyes darken as he looks up, his laughter abruptly replaced by a stern frown, the twitching corners of his mouth the only thing betraying him. “We are never, ever mentioning that again, Harold. And besides, maybe she thought I was 30. Could’ve had you at 13. It’s possible, you know. Especially with my virile, manly sperm.” He winks. “Could’ve had six of you by now.”_ _

__Harry is shaking his head, tears of mirth now threatening to run down his cheeks. “Oh really?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Have you been thinking about that? Popping out your own breed of Harry Styles clones? One of me not enough?”_ _

__Nick’s rolls his eyes melodramatically. “I most certainly have not been thinking anything of the sort, popstar.”_ _

__Harry grins, knowing he’s won. “Sure.” He laughs, patting Nick’s thigh condescendingly. “Look, Grimmy, what can I say. There’s plenty of me to go around.”_ _

__“Gee, thanks, Frankie.”_ _

__“No worries, Dad.”_ _

Nick rolls his eyes again as he puts the car into gear, pulls out into the traffic. _What a bloody great day,_ he thinks, glancing over at Harry, who’s now scrolling through his phone in the passenger seat, humming along to Rihanna on the radio. He’s definitely going to be a star, this kid, Nick can tell. There’s something about him; he stands out in a crowd. Nick can’t put his finger on exactly what it is, but that’s probably the strength of it. Just a certain _something_. 

Nick figures the fame bubble will swallow him whole any day now. He doubts Harry’ll have much time for jumper shopping with ageing DJs; this’ll probably be the one and only time he gets so much as five minutes with him. 

_Oh well_ , he thinks. _Makes for a good story, at least_. 

__***  
 **now**_ _

__"I reckon it's second bottle time, Harold,” Nick declares, tapping a rhythm on Harry’s chest._ _

__"Mmm,” Harry murmurs in assent. “Does that mean I have to get up?" he asks, tilting his head back to pout at Nick._ _

__Nick grins, pouting right back, sticking his lower lip out in mock sympathy. "It does, love, I'm sorry to say."_ _

__Harry grumbles and shifts himself slowly into a sitting position, shaking his head. "This sun is putting me into a coma," he mumbles, stretching his arms wide, cracking his neck. He leans over to the edge of the picnic blanket, and pulls the basket over._ _

"See," he says, fixing Nick with one of his frequent _I am generally a better adult than you_ type looks, "if I hadn't bought these wine chiller things our wine would be disgustingly hot by now, and you’d be banging on about it, and the whole day would be ruined, and we'd have a big bust up, and then we'd break up. All over." 

__"We're that close to the edge, you reckon?" Nick asks, raising his eyebrows. "That's all it'd take?"_ _

__Harry laughs as he unscrews the cap on the wine bottle, picking up Nick's glass from where it's rolled off the rug. "Let’s say I know what you're like when anything comes between you and alcohol."_ _

__***_ _

**then**

_Harry: Sadie says you’re going to Elton’s. I just got off the plane, I’m on my way there. Is your boy going to be there?_

_Nick: He is not ‘my boy’. And no. I’m going with Sadie. Meeting Collette and Gellz._

_Harry: Good._

_Nick: How would you feel about a break from the break? x_

It’s thirty-three minutes since Nick sent that last text, and there’s been no response. He’s since bitten off all his nails, texted Aimee four times, snapped at both his mother and father (and then apologised profusely), had three cocktails made of god knows what, managed to completely ruin his hair by running his hand through it approximately six dozen times, and is now strongly considering full blown panicking. There seems little other option at this point. 

The “x” he put at the end is _particularly_ painful. He’s reread the message a hundred times, and it’s been so, so bad every time. What the _fuck_ was he thinking? 

__Maybe he should just leave. That’s probably best. He’ll just leave._ _

__He’s deep in this psychotic reverie when his Dad suddenly exclaims next to him, bringing him back to reality with a jolt. “Well, if it isn’t Harry Styles!”_ _

__Nick looks up, sees Harry standing two feet away, and for a moment, everything stops. They make eye contact, and Nick’s heart seems to leap clear out of his chest. He’d forgotten how much he – God. How is it that after all this fucking time, Nick still seems able to forget what Harry does to him?_ _

__Harry’s eyes are tired but warm, his shoulders a little broader than Nick remembers, his features even more defined. Nick wants to strip off his clothes then and there, run his hands all over him, learn every new detail, catch up with every little change he’s missed. He wants everyone else in the room to disappear, wants to drag Harry away to a dark corner of the world where no one will find them. Wants to admit he still sleeps in Harry’s shirts, almost every night; pretends he can still smell a trace of his scent. Wants to tell him he never stopped loving him, not for an instant. That he never could._ _

__But then Harry’s wrapping his Dad up in a big bear hug, kissing his mum on the cheek, giving Sadie a tight squeeze. It’s all happening far too quickly, and Nick realises it’s been quite a number of seconds since he last took a breath. As Harry steps in front of him, he inhales deeply and simply falls into Harry’s arms. It’s not particularly graceful, but as Harry wraps his big – bloody massive, now – arms around him, he really doesn’t care._ _

__They hold on to each other for a few more moments, Nick breathing in Harry’s unmistakeable smell like it’s a vital life source. As they pull away, Harry presses something into Nick’s hand, makes him curl a fist around it._ _

__“Take this,” he says quickly, his eyes scanning Nick’s, before turning back to Nick’s parents._ _

__Nick turns away from the group, uncurling his fist as he does so. Squashed and crumpled there is a blue paper napkin. He unfolds it slowly, but there’s nothing inside. Just as he’s about to tap Harry on the shoulder and tell him that whatever he’s trying to give him has scarpered, the light catches the napkin and he realises it’s covered in writing. Harry’s handwriting, to be precise._ _

_We, Harry Styles and Nick Grimshaw, hereby agree to have a Break From The Break. This BFTB will last from today, September 13 2013, until Harry Styles must once again leave the country, and will involve as much sex as humanly possible. During this time no Italian men are to be mentioned._

__Harry’s signature is at the bottom, a huge scrawl. Nick reads the contract once, twice, his face breaking into a grin._ _

__He turns back to the group, sees Harry glance over at him, an expectant look on his face. Nick grins in his direction, then claps his Dad heartily on the shoulder._ _

__“Dad, d’you have a pen? Gotta sign something for someone.”_ _

__***_ _

__**now** _ _

__"Ugh, this grass is killing me," says Nick, in as nonchalant a tone as he can muster, as Harry hands him a fresh glass of wine. "Can you open that side pocket on the left there?” he asks, gesturing to the basket. “I put my hayfever tablets in there, I reckon."_ _

__Harry nods, unzipping the pocket. He rummages around, shoving his fingers deep inside. "Nothing's here," he says, frowning. "Sure you put them in?" he asks, as he starts to check the main compartment._ _

__Nick's stomach is doing backflips as he tries to hold a straight face. Definitely a wise choice, not pursuing a Hollywood career. "Maybe it's not my tablets then. There's definitely something in that pocket."_ _

__Harry looks up at him, frowning in confusion. "What are you talking about?" He reaches back into the pocket, peers in. "Nothing’s in here but this napkin or whatever, I can't..."_ _

__***_ _

__**then** _ _

__Nick leans heavily against the bar, as he tries in vain to get the hot – but clearly straight –bartender’s attention. Where’s Aimee’s cleavage when you need it? He eventually manages to flag him down, orders a vodka. “Make it a double,” he hears himself say, and he really has become that cliché of a man. A very small voice in his brain tells him he doesn’t even need a drink, really; his head is already swimming from the ridiculous quantity of tequila he and Aimee had downed before they’d even left home. “It’s fucking Valentine’s Day,” she’d snapped. “We’re getting wasted.” But Nick’s got a meeting at the station in the morning, so he can’t end up completely twatted tonight. He’ll just have a quiet one. Sensible. Few drinks with mates, quick hello to Harry, home by midnight. Easy._ _

He laughs to himself now as he hands over the cash for the drinks. It’s quite remarkable, really, how much effort he puts in to convincing himself that _it’ll be fine_. Every single time he sees Harry, he spends the few hours preceding (or days, whatever; who’s counting?) telling himself that it’s no big deal. He gave up trying to pretend he wasn’t fairly thoroughly gone on him a couple of months ago, but he still does his best to assure himself that he can deal with it. I mean, what’s a bit of harmless fancying between pals? There’s nothing wrong with it. Harry never needs to know, and Nick’s bound to get over it any day now. It’s nice that they’re mates, that’s all. They get on well. Both Northerners, and all that. And it’s good for his career. And his crew all think he’s brilliant. It’s nice. That’s all. It’s a wonderful, laddy friendship. 

_I’ll see him, and I’ll say hello, and we’ll have a nice chat, and maybe a few quiet drinks, and that’ll be that,_ he’d been telling himself, that very afternoon. Had even said that exact sentence to Aimee, somewhere between the fourth and the fifth tequila shot, when his lounge room had already begun to blur slightly and his tongue had begun to loosen. “Sure, honey,” she’d drawled, her cherry red lipstick leaving stains on the side of her shot glass as she rolled her eyes. “That’ll be that.” 

He throws his head back and gulps the vodka down in a single motion, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards. He just – he wasn’t _prepared,_ you know? He never is. No amount of pre-convincing seems to work. But tonight is particularly insane, he thinks to himself. Harry looks ridiculously gorgeous. It should be illegal. His hair is just the right kind of floppy (when did he start considering _floppy_ a positive attribute for hair, Nick wonders, but he knows when, of course) and his jeans look like they were painted on and his skin is clear and his eyes are bright and… _God_. When he walked in before, Nick did _that thing,_ that thing where he spots Harry before anyone else in the room does, seemingly, and then turns away and tries to look animatedly engrossed in conversation so that he can spin around in mock surprise when Harry taps him on the shoulder. This time Harry had a slight smirk on his face when he turned around, seeming to suggest that Nick has done that thing one too many times now. Jesus Christ, this boy has him taped. 

__And he’d wrapped Nick up in a tight hug, stepped back and given him that bloody look as he asked him how he was. Nick knows, he absolutely one hundred per cent knows, that Harry manages to make everyone in this universe and the next think he has a look that’s only for them. It’s the very definition of charming, for fuck’s sake. And yet it still makes him weak at the bloody knees, every time. Still makes him forget what he’s saying, and then rush to overcompensate, being as obnoxious and hilarious as he can be for the first minute or so until his heart returns to its normal pace. This charade had been even more transparent than usual tonight, he was certain, and so he’d run off to the bar at the first possible opportunity._ _

__He thinks he might just prop here on a stool for the night, actually. There are nuts, crisps, an endless supply of alcohol, a good looking bartender; what more could he need? Anything has to be an improvement on facing Harry again._ _

__He’s about to attempt to get the bartender’s attention again when a chin is suddenly hooked over his left shoulder, and arms slide quickly around his waist. There isn’t even a split second where he can pray to any deity listening that it’s not Harry; his smell is unmistakeable, and his voice in Nick’s ear literally sends a shiver down his spine._ _

__“Ran away from me on Valentine’s Day!” he exclaims, his words slightly slurred. “When I came all the way back from bloody Paris and everything.”_ _

__Nick prises his fingers away from his stomach and extracts himself from Harry’s clingy praying mantis arms. He turns around to face him, placing a hand on his shoulder in what he hopes is a laddy fashion. “Alcohol called, so I went a running,” he answers, flashing his best fake smile._ _

Harry grins back, and – was that a _wink?_ Nick honestly can’t tell, at this level of inebriation. He thinks it was a fucking wink. 

__“So,” Harry starts. “One of the staff here just came up to me and said we can have a private room, if we want. There’s a nice one available, she said.”_ _

__Nick gulps. He definitely needs that next drink. “Oh yeah?” he asks, feigning nonchalance. “I’m sure the others would be up for that.”_ _

Harry smiles, the slightest hint of nervousness in his expression. “Why don’t we go and check it out first?” he asks, his words tumbling out in a rush, as though he’d rehearsed them. Without waiting for an answer, he grabs Nick by the hand, leading him through the club. Nick stumbles along blindly behind, his heart beating a mile a minute. _It’s not going to be what I want it to be,_ he tells himself. _No bloody way. Harry probably wants a quiet spot to play Scrabble._

__A tall and slightly terrifying bouncer waves them past a curtained doorway, and Harry pushes open the first door on the left. As the door closes behind them, the club music dulls by a few decibels, and Nick blinks at his surroundings. There’s an ice bucket on a central glass table – empty, much to his distress – and the carpet is a deep, plush red. Sleek, black leather sofas cover two walls, and the lighting is somewhere between candlelit and total darkness. He opens his mouth several times, but nothing intelligible comes out._ _

__Harry bursts into giggles, still gripping Nick’s hand as he surveys the room. “Do you feel like we just stepped into a porno?” he asks incredulously, turning to Nick so that their bodies are inches apart._ _

__Nick bursts out laughing as he looks down at Harry. “Well, now that you’ve said it…” he says, the words sounding incredibly slurred in the relative quiet._ _

__Harry grins back, takes Nick by the other hand as he looks up at him. “I really…” he begins, coughs, starts again with a nervous laugh. “I really really want…”_ _

“What??” Nick laughs, equally nervously, his palms starting to sweat. “What do you want, what do you really really really want, Harold?” he asks. _Nothing like a Spice Girls reference to kill the mood,_ he thinks, mentally clawing out his own tongue. 

__Harry untangles one of his hands and places it gently behind Nick’s neck, his expression suddenly serious. “You, actually,” he breathes, and after a moment’s hesitation, he leans forward and presses his lips to Nick’s._ _

__For a second Nick is too stunned to move. Maybe he fell and hit his head? Maybe this is a tequila induced hallucination? Maybe all his mates are about to jump out from behind the couch, in an elaborate punking? But then Harry is moving his lips away for a moment, confused by Nick’s lack of response, whispering “No?”, his eyes afraid, and that’s it; he’s in._ _

He kisses Harry hungrily and desperately, his tongue pressing inside Harry’s mouth – _oh my god, my_ tongue _is inside Harry’s_ mouth, he thinks – and his hands quickly wrapping tightly around his back. Harry lets out a low noise in the back of his throat and Nick moans in response. It would be embarrassing if he was less drunk, but he’s not, so he moans again as Harry licks in deeper, changes the angle. They stumble backward until the back of Nick’s knees hit the sofa, and in a tangle of drunken limbs they somehow end up horizontal. 

__Harry breaks away for a moment, propping himself up above Nick and shifting their position slightly, pushing Nick’s thighs apart roughly and lining their hips up together. As he brings their mouths together again he grinds downwards, and if Nick thought he sounded embarrassing before, he was clearly unprepared for the sound that he omits now. He grinds up against Harry in response and Harry whines – actually bloody whines – and returns the pressure. Nick unzips his trousers, and then Harry’s, exhaling deeply at the relief as Harry pushes their waistbands down, frees both their cocks. Within seconds, they’re flush up against each other, their leaking cocks rubbing together, and they quickly build up what could loosely be described as a rhythm. It’s ridiculously uncoordinated and in other circumstances Nick would be trying to improve on it, but right now he’s completely drunk, Harry Styles’ tongue is in his mouth, and he’s so hard he wants to die._ _

__He’s always been good at getting it up when he’s drunk, but this is ridiculous. Later he’ll be wondering what the hell it is that this boy does to him. For now he’s more worried that this is all going to be over before it starts._ _

__Harry pulls his mouth away again, continues to grind their crotches together as they both pant desperately; and it seems Nick’s not the only one teetering on the edge. “Fuck, Nick, ‘m not gonna last,” Harry confirms, stuttering, sweat beading around the edges of his hairline. Nick gasps as Harry moves even faster, the familiar heat pooling in his stomach. “Me neither,” he manages to get out, before sealing Harry’s mouth with his own again, his hands grabbing at Harry’s bare arse. They rut against each other for only a few more seconds and suddenly Harry is crying out, his whole body convulsing as he comes violently, collapsing heavily half on top of Nick. The sight of Harry so wrecked, the warmth of his come and the weight of his body combine to give Nick the last push he needs, and within seconds he’s following suit, swearing loudly as he spills all over his stomach._ _

_So that’s a thing that's just happened,_ Nick thinks manically, as he tries to get his breath back, his face buried in Harry’s curls and his body pressed into the sofa under Harry’s dead weight. _I just made an eighteen year old popstar come in a nightclub._

Maybe this will cure me of him? he wonders, hopefully. 

__Harry props himself up again and gives Nick a wobbly grin, his cheeks visibly flushed even in the dull light, sweat all through his curls. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Grimmy,” he says softly, his smile broad, his eyes locked on Nick’s._ _

_Yeah, no,_ thinks Nick, as he stares back, a bewildered smile forming on his lips. _Not going to cure me._

__***  
 **now**_ _

__As Nick watches, he sees the moment Harry's face changes, the moment he notices the handwriting on the napkin._ _

__"Nick, what..." he trails off, as he pulls out the napkin, smooths it out flat on the picnic rug. He glances quickly up at Nick, who is by now so nervous that he literally cannot speak. He's also smiling though, smiling so wide it's almost painful. It's possible these are the beginnings of hysteria._ _

Nick watches as Harry skims the note once, twice, slower the second time. He is utterly silent throughout, and Nick's smile disappears as rapidly as it appeared. As the seconds tick on, he begins to wonder if he should just get up and run far, far away. _This is total fucking madness,_ he suddenly realises. 

__Then Harry starts to read aloud, his eyes still trained on the napkin._ _

__"I, Nicholas Peter Grimshaw, hereby declare that Mr Harry Edward Styles is the love of my life. I fell in love with him when he was 17, and he is now ancient, and apparently I am still mentally, stupidly in love with him. He is the kindest, sexiest, smartest, funniest, most totally brilliant person that I know, and I cannot imagine spending a second of my life without him. I have never loved anyone the way that I love him, and I know that I never will." Harry's voice cracks, and he pauses a moment before he continues. "Therefore, with this formal napkin contract, I declare my desire to marry him, and wake up with his curls smushed into my face every morning for the rest of my life. Signed, Nick Grimshaw."_ _

__Finally, Harry looks up. His eyes are filled with tears, but he's smiling from ear to ear. He reaches out and grabs Nick's hand violently, squeezes his fingers in a death grip._ _

__"Are you serious?" he chokes out. "Are you fucking serious? Because you can't do this if you're not serious. This absolutely cannot be a joke."_ _

__Nick's eyes are dancing as he replies, takes a huge breath. "I am fucking serious, Harry, yes."_ _

__Harry is speechless, his hand still squeezing Nick's, his eyes wide._ _

__Nick coughs, pulls on his earlobe. "So did you want... did you want to sign it then?"_ _

__***_ _

__**then** _ _

Before Nick opens his eyes, he lies still for a few moments. There’s no hurry this morning, no rush for either of them; he can take his time. Eyes closed, he concentrates on the warm body in his arms. Nick is lying on his side, spooning Harry (always the big spoon – the day that changes will be the day Nick finally cedes his last remaining dregs of control, and he’s not _quite_ ready for that yet), whose warm, naked back is pressing into his chest. Nick’s hand is curled tightly around Harry’s, as though he might escape at any moment, and their legs are intertwined. Harry is still deeply asleep, Nick can tell, from how deep his breathing sounds. 

__Nick lies perfectly still, eyes still shut, and part of him wants to cry. He’d always thought people were off their rockers when they talked about crying for joy. What’s the good of being joyful if you’re bloody crying about it? But as he lies here wrapped around his – well, his… whatever Harry is – he gets it now. He understands._ _

__The realisation that this is the happiest he has ever been, in his 28 years of life, hits him like a punch._ _

__The last week has been… god, Nick doesn’t even know how to describe it. He supposes in many ways it’s been pretty unremarkable, really. They haven’t done anything amazing. No skydiving, no tropical beaches, no four star hotels. It’s just been a perfectly average week, really – they’ve been to Liam’s birthday, been to Reading, seen Rita Ora sing, had a few lunches out, and Harry’s gone to see Nick DJ a couple of times. Other than that, nothing to write home about; a lot of lying about on Nick’s sofa, a few stellar homecooked meals, the usual time in the studio, and a fair bit of sleep, most surprisingly. But Harry has barely left his side, has been with him almost every minute of every day, and that’s apparently all it takes these days._ _

__Apparently Harry is enough. Apparently Harry is everything._ _

__And to be fair, they’ve had a ridiculous quantity of sex._ _

__The whole thing’s a bit terrifying, and a small nagging voice in the back of Nick’s mind is telling him, in no uncertain terms, that he’d better not get used to it. The voice long ago stopped bothering to tell him not to fall in love with a world famous popstar (everyone and their mother knew that ship had sailed), but it’s kept trying to inject some pessimism. And most of the time, it’s worked a treat. Nick’s nothing if not a whiny pessimist. He does whiny, melodramatic pessimism better than most. Prides himself on it, in fact._ _

__But somewhere between Harry’s drunken “You’re such an idiot, I have no idea why I’m in love with you” on Sunday and his mumbled “Could stay here forever” on Thursday, even Nick’s hardcore pessimism has deserted him. Now he’s not sure he’s stopped smiling in several days. There’s a high probability that he’s pulled a muscle in his face._ _

__Harry stirs slightly, shifting a little, pressing his back closer to Nick. “Why’re you awake?” he mumbles, voice muffled with sleep._ _

__“I’m not, love. Going back to sleep now.”_ _

__Harry snuffles, squeezing Nick’s hand and bringing it to his lips for a quick, half asleep kiss. “Good.”_ _

__Nick’s stomach clenches at the tiny gesture, and there are actual tears now, actual traitorous tears pricking the corners of his eyes. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thinks._ _

__“I love you really quite a lot, Harold,” he whispers, and he knows it’s only been a few weeks that he’s been able to say it, but he feels like he could never get sick of it. He presses his lips softly to Harry’s curls, drinking in his smell._ _

__As Harry responds, Nick can hear his smile through his mumbled words. “I love you back, Nicholas.”_ _

__***_ _

__**now** _ _

__Harry yells out something unintelligible, and surges forward, knocking Nick flat on to his back, wine flying everywhere. "I love you so fucking much," he says, before kissing Nick hungrily, pinning him to the rug. Nick runs his hands down Harry's spine as he kisses him back, grabs a handful of his curls and surges up against him. They’re almost smiling too much to kiss, and after a minute Harry pulls away, lets out a hoot of laughter. He props himself on his hands above Nick, looking down at him with his curls forming a mad halo around his face, and in that moment he’s as happy as Nick has ever seen him. Nick wants to take that look and frame it; wants to never forget how it feels to make Harry smile like that._ _

__"So I'll take that as a yes then?" he asks, laughing._ _

__Harry tilts his head to the side. "Not official til I sign it, is it?" he says, smirking._ _

__Nick rolls his eyes. “Alright, what do you want? Name your price.”_ _

__Harry grins, presses his lips to Nick’s again, before narrowing his eyes. “Well, have you got me a ring, or what?”_ _

__Nick grimaces guiltily. “I haven’t, actually,” he says, laughing. “I was too nervous! Even having that bloody napkin in my bag felt like carrying around a bomb. I’ve been carting it round in my backpack for three weeks.”_ _

__Harry tries to look disappointed, but his expression’s far too fond for that. He lowers himself so that he’s straddling Nick’s hips, intertwines their fingers together._ _

__“You are such a bloody tease,” he says, squeezing his thighs together for emphasis. “Making me say yes hypothetically before you asked me properly.”_ _

__“Well I couldn’t have you rejecting me, could I?” Nick exclaims. “If you were gonna say no, I wanted to know about it in advance!”_ _

__Harry shakes his head, still smiling from ear to ear. “You’re an idiot.”_ _

__Nick grins back, squeezes Harry’s hands. “But you looooooove me,” he drawls._ _

__Harry leans over to kiss him again, and drops a trail of kisses along Nick’s jawline to his ear. “I do,” he whispers, nibbling quickly on his earlobe. “And you loooooooove me.”_ _

__Nick exhales deeply, turning to catch Harry’s mouth in a kiss again. “I really, really do,” he says, and he wonders if he’s ever been as certain of anything in his life._ _

__As Harry sits up again, he pulls the napkin out from under the tipped over wine bottle. "Have you at least got a bloody pen?” he asks, stabbing at the blank space next to his name, and Nick throws back his head and laughs._ _

__“Sorry, popstar. I’ll just have to take your word for it.”_ _


End file.
